A Center Story: Promise Me
by lilyrowan1
Summary: It's December, 1925. Mary is very sick with influenza. What does she want Matthew to promise?


_Hello! I hope everyone has been enjoying summer! Here's a new Center Story epilogue set in 1925: Mary is very ill with influenza . . ._

_Notes if you haven't read the The Center of My Heart or read it a while ago: Matthew sends Lavinia away right after he is injured, as in canon, and she doesn't return. He learns in a letter from her father that she has died of influenza in London in November 1918. Also, Allyn replaced Anna as Mary's lady's maid after Anna retired when her child was born in late 1921. Oh, and Tom is the estate manager; he, Sybil and their two children live in the manager's house._

* * *

Promise Me

Early December, 1925

Matthew stared dully out the window, watching as the clouds moved through the azure sky, the late afternoon sun's corona gilding the treetops and the downs. How could the day,_ this_ day, be so beautiful? He leaned his head against the cool glass pane and closed his eyes. _Please, God, please. Please, please, dear God, please. _

With a heavy sigh, he turned, watching Allyn minister to Mary, who was covered only by a sheet, now that her fever had returned with a vengeance. Silently, he crossed the room, wincing a bit from having sat too much and too long. He held out his hand for the flannel, dipped it in the pan of cool water, wrung it out, sitting down in the armchair that had been brought to her bedside. He placed the flannel on her brow, then took up her hand, his thumb rubbing her knuckles, his gaze never leaving her face: the pale, translucent skin; her sunken eyes and hollow cheeks; the sheen of sweat.

Allyn hovered a moment, then picked up her basket of mending and retreated to Mary's dressing table bench.

A quick knock at the door, and Sybil entered. She paused, her face registering her recognition of how sick her sister was. But still she asked, with a catch in her voice, as she crossed the room, "Any change?"

Matthew looked up, and the circles under his eyes, his drawn face, answered the question before he did. He shook his head. "How's your mother?"

"She's better, her fever's down. She's sleeping now, a restful sleep." She stopped, looking back at Mary, then Matthew again. "She seems to have turned the corner." Cora, who had just hours ago seemed far sicker than Mary.

"I'm so glad." He was, truly, even if his first thought had been, _Why not Mary?_

"Clarkson called. He said to tell you, he's on his way."

Matthew nodded.

"I have to go home to nurse Michael, but I'll be back soon. Will you be all right? I don't like to leave you here alone."

Matthew nodded again. "I'm fine. Allyn's here. And Mother's come. She's with the children now." He held her eyes. "Thank you for all you've done."

"I'll be back soon," she repeated.

"Yes."

"You should lie down. You've hardly left that chair since yesterday evening."

.

Yesterday evening. It seemed an eternity ago. Mary had been doing so well—Clarkson, who came twice a day, had reassured him and Robert that this year's strain of influenza had been pretty mild—_nothing like 1918 and 19_—and so it had seemed. Cora and Mary were sure they had caught it from that waitress at Linden's tea room, where they had stopped after some shopping in York. _She looked so peaked!_ they had both agreed. So far, no one else had taken sick.

Matthew had brought Mary bouquets of winter hellebores and holly the children had culled from the garden, and cards and pictures they had drawn. _They miss their Mummy! _

_Tell them I'm so much better, and I'll see them soon_, and Matthew had managed a few hours of sleep in his dressing room, waking frequently to check on her. But she had slept peacefully

Cora's fever had stayed up, and everyone was anxious about her, although they made sure not to let on to Mary just how sick she was. But it seemed Mary had turned the corner, her temperature down, the achiness that accompanied 'flu abating.

_Read to me, darling, _she had smiled yesterday afternoon, three days after falling ill, and he had surprised her with the latest Wodehouse he had purchased in Manchester, when he and Isobel attended the funeral of a colleague of his father's the week before. _I was saving this for your birthday, but I think you need it now!_ he grinned. And she had laughed in delight at the clever prose. But it wasn't too many pages before she closed her eyes. _Sorry._ _Tired_, she had murmured apologetically.

_Yes, rest well, my love._

But she didn't rest well._ I just can't get comfortable, everything aches again_. She managed a bit of broth, then slept, but fitfully, and Matthew had sat with her throughout the night. By morning, her breathing was shallow, her head and body tossing and turning fretfully. She spoke rarely, eventually sometimes calling out in delirium. Clarkson had come immediately upon being rung first thing.

After examining Mary, he had taken Matthew out into the hall. _I'm sorry,_ _the return of the fever is not good news._ _She's fighting pneumonia. But she's in good health, that can make all the difference_._ I've administered quinine. See if she'll take some cinnamon tea. Call me if there's any change._ _Otherwise, I'll come back this evening. _Matthew had stared after him as he walked away. He couldn't stop thinking about what Reggie had written about Lavinia: _She seemed fine, and then she wasn't, and then she was gone._

.

Matthew looked up at Sybil, then back to Mary. "I'm fine."

Sybil crossed to him, kissing the top of his head, caressed Mary's hot cheek, and left.

Matthew wet and wrung out the flannel again, placing it on Mary's forehead. Each breath seemed such an effort for her. Rather than the agitated tossing and turning, she now lay quite still. _Please, God, please._

A knock, and Clarkson entered the room. Nodding to Matthew, he set his bag on the bed, removed a thermometer and gently inserted it in Mary's mouth, then took out his pocket watch and lifted Mary's wrist. After a few minutes, he removed the thermometer, held it over the light and squinted, murmuring grimly, "It's up." He shook out the thermometer, returned it to the bag, and took out his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. After listening first to her heart, then her chest, he wrapped the cuff around her arm. He placed his stethoscope and began inflating the cuff.

Matthew held his breath, watching Clarkson's face for any sign of hope. The cuff inflated, then deflated, and with it, Matthew's hope, as Clarkson frowned, quickly unwrapping the cuff, rummaging in his bag, finally taking out a syringe and injecting Mary's arm.

"What is it?" Matthew whispered.

Clarkson inclined his head to the door. Matthew rose with difficulty, as often happened when he'd been sitting too long, then followed the doctor out to the corridor. Clarkson's gaze of compassion confirmed Matthew's worst fears.

"Mr. Crawley." Clarkson stopped, trying to find his way to go on.

"Please," Matthew begged. "Tell me. Just tell me."

The doctor nodded. "Yes. Lady Mary's temperature has risen to 104, the congestion in her lungs has increased, and her blood pressure is dangerously low."

The color drained from Matthew's face, and everything swayed for a moment."

"It is not good news," the doctor continued. "I've given her epinephrine. That will dilate the blood vessels, which in turn, it is hoped, can raise her pressure, get her heart pumping, and give her a fighting chance to mount a defense against the infection."

Matthew stared at him.

"Yes. Well. I'm going to go to Lady Grantham, now, but I'll be back shortly to check on Lady Mary. I'm not leaving." He squeezed Matthew's arm.

Matthew stared at the doctor, then turned in a daze, opening the door.

"Mr. Crawley."

Matthew stopped and waited for the doctor to continue.

Clarkson repeated his words from that morning. "She's been in good health, Mr. Crawley. That can make the difference."

After a moment, Matthew nodded silently and entered their bedroom. He seated himself heavily, taking up Mary's hand.

Allyn removed the flannel from Mary's forehead, dipped and wrung it out, then replaced it. "I'll get fresh water and more ice," she said quietly, taking up the pan on the bedside table.

Matthew watched Mary's shallow breathing, desperate for some sign—any small, infinitesimal sign—of improvement, but there was no change. He turned to look out the window, the setting sun sending streaks of color across the sky, this sky so beautiful—how could it be so beautiful?—and his eyes filled, the colors blurring—.

"Promise me."

Her voice, barely a whisper, made his heart leap to his throat, and he turned, leaning forward to caress her hair. "Mary?"

After a moment, her eyes opened, and she responded, "Yes . . . Mary . . . Mary. . ."

_Mary? _What did she mean? Had the delirium returned?

"Promise me . . ." she insisted. "Mary . . ."

He kissed her burning hand. "Promise you what, my darling?"

Her lips moved, then finally, "The children."

"Mother's with them now. She and Wally are putting them to bed. They want to see you so much, darling, and they'll see you soon." _Please God, please._

Mary was silent, closing her eyes. Then with what seemed an extra effort, she opened them, gazing at Matthew. "Mother."

"Your mother? She's much better, darling. And you will be, too."

"Need . . . Mother."

"She's still sick, but you'll see her soon."

She gave her head a bare shake. "No . . .Mary . . . the children." She closed her eyes again. "Need . . . Mother. . . promise me . . ."

What did she mean? "I promise," he answered, desperate to soothe her, "I promise."

Mary seemed to relax, sighing.

"I promise, darling, I promise," Matthew repeated, hoping the words would somehow help her to get better.

Her lips started moving, then: "Love . . ." She sighed, again. ". . .you."

He took her hand in both of his. "So much, my darling, so much," he choked, his eyes filling again. "And I need you, so much, and the children love and need you, so much." His chest heaved, as he continued, "And you must promise _me_ that you will fight, Mary, you won't give up, you're strong, you're a storm braver, and you'll brave this storm. Please, please, my darling," he begged, "promise me you'll fight, you'll not give up. Don't give up, Mary, don't give up."

It all came pouring out, and when he finished with a sob, he felt the slightest, the very slightest, pressure of her hand. _Please, please, please._

The knock at the door startled him, and he quickly wiped his eyes. Allyn entered carrying a fresh basin of ice water, followed by his mother.

Isobel came around the bed and kissed his cheek. "I spoke with Dr. Clarkson," she said softly. "Any change?"

"She spoke a few words about the children and her mother a moment ago, but—" he shrugged and shook his head, replacing the flannel on Mary's brow with the new one Allyn had immersed and wrung out.

"She's worried about them, no doubt." She watched Mary silently, then said quietly to Matthew. "I think it would be good if you sat with the children for just a bit. You needn't stay long. I'll be right here, and Dr. Clarkson will be coming back when he's finished with Cora."

Matthew hesitated, torn between wanting to see to the children and being afraid to leave Mary.

"They said they needed a 'Daddy tuck-in.'"

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he nodded, rising. "You'll come get me immediately if there's a—" He swallowed hard, looking first at Mary, then his mother. "A change. Any kind of change."

"Of course," Isobel assured him, taking his place in the chair. As she watched him move stiffly around the bed, holding onto the footboard, she offered quietly, "Would you like me to fetch your stick?"

"No!" he snapped, "I've just been sitting too much!" Then he turned, exhaling. "I'm sorry. Forgive me, Mother."

Isobel shook her head. "Don't apologize. It's all too much."

He nodded, then continued on to the door and left the room.

As if in a dream, he made his way down the corridor, then up the few stairs to the nursery suite. Outside the door of the night nursery, he paused before entering. How was he going to get through this without falling apart, when their mother was . . . their mother was . . . He blocked the thought and took several deep breaths. "Right." He opened the door.

"Daddy!" George, Catherine, and Robbie chorused, sitting up in bed.

"Hello, you lot!" he grinned. "Hello, Wally," he added, as the nurse rose from the rocker. He inclined his head toward the blue book she was holding, his childhood copy of _The Blue Fairy Book. _"Don't let me interrupt."

"We've just finished, sir," she smiled.

"And what was tonight's tale?" he asked, raising his brows.

"_Toads and Diamonds_," George called. "Cathy picked it, and now she wishes she hadn't."

"Snakes and toads came out of the bad sister's mouth!" cried Robbie, the two-and-a-half-year-old laughing gleefully.

"Horrible," four-and-a-half-year-old Catherine pronounced, shuddering dramatically.

Matthew seated himself on Catherine's bed, as Wally left them. "So we'll all remember to be good and kind, won't we?" he smiled, gently tugging one of her chestnut plaits. "Then only pearls, diamonds, and roses will fall out." He tapped her nose.

"I want snakes and toads when I talk!" Robbie cried, flopping back with a shriek and kicking his legs.

"No, you don't!" Catherine shot back, "You're just saying that!" She rolled her eyes, a miniature of her mother.

"Daddy," George interjected, "give us a tuck-in, would you?"

"That's what I'm here for. Show me you're ready."

All three lay back, pulling their covers up to their chins, their legs straight.

Matthew and Mary often looked in on the children together, but when one or the other did so alone, they each had their bedtime rituals. "Tucking in" was one of Matthew's.

He went to George's bed first. Fists together, he began to punch the covers down, starting at one shoulder, following George's still form down one side, around his feet, then back up the other, all the while making huffing and puffing noises like a steam engine, until he finished at the other shoulder, George shaking with giggles all the while. Then he did the same to Catherine and Robbie, the latter unable to keep from squirming, he was laughing so hard.

Matthew took out his handkerchief, wiped his brow and sat down in the rocker, feigning exhaustion. "Whew!"

The giggling subsided, then Catherine asked plaintively, "When can we see Mummy? We miss her _so_ much."

Matthew's heart sank, but he managed to reply cheerfully. "Soon I hope, sweet."

"Maybe tomorrow?" George asked hopefully.

"We'll see what Dr. Clarkson says."

"I miss her," Robbie stated emphatically. "I miss her smell."

"And she misses all of you and sends all her love," Matthew replied softly.

"Send her all our love and give her lots of hugs," Catherine said, throwing her arms out.

"All my love and hugs," cried Robbie.

"Yes, and tell her we hope she feels better soon," George added seriously.

"I'll be sure to tell her," Matthew nodded.

Robbie demanded, "Sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle,' Daddy!"

"All right," Matthew smiled.

"But sing it like Mummy does, with the bat!" Catherine instructed.

"Yes, the bat!" Robbie, seconded, clapping his hands.

"Does she?"

"Yes, she started to, after we finished _Alice in Wonderland_," George explained.

Matthew's throat got tight. "I like that," he smiled, starting to rock. "Much better."

"Wait!" Catherine held up a hand. "Mummy says 'good night, sweet dreams' and blows us kisses before she sings, and we catch them."

"Why not after she sings?" he asked.

"Because she hopes we'll be asleep by then," Catherine answered, as if stating the obvious. "And," she added, "she says if we're not, we must pretend to be."

"Aha. Very wise," Matthew nodded. "Well, then—good night, sweet dreams," he said, blowing first Catherine, then George, and finally Robbie a kiss, each of them reaching out and 'catching' it.

"I'll be awake," Robbie laughed.

Matthew inclined his head to Robbie, raising an eyebrow, then began to sing softly:

_Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!__  
__How I wonder what you're at!_

_Up above the world you fly,__  
__Like a tea tray in the sky_

_Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!__  
__How I wonder what you're at!_

Three more times, and Catherine and Robbie had fallen asleep. But not George, whose eyes were wide and anxious, watching Matthew. Nearly six, he could sense things, see things, his sister and brother couldn't. His father stopped rocking and held out his arms to his son, who got out of bed and climbed into his lap. Matthew's arms came around him, and they rocked silently.

"Daddy," George whispered finally.

"Yes, Georgie?"

"Is Mummy very sick?"

_Oh, Georgie!_ "She's been pretty sick, but Dr. Clarkson has given her medicine to make her better."

"Good." Then George added so quietly Matthew could almost not hear him. "I miss her smell, too."

Matthew's arms tightened around the boy. "I know you do, Georgie." He pressed a kiss to the top of George's head, then his son slid out of his lap and went back to bed. Matthew rose from the rocker and sat down next to George, who turned onto his stomach. Matthew started to rub his back, and it wasn't long before his even breathing indicated he had finally fallen asleep.

Matthew looked from George to Cathy and then Robbie. _They need their mother,_ he thought desperately, _they need their mother. _And Mary's words came back to him: _Need mother_ . . . She needed her mother, they needed their—. He stopped, blood pounding in his head, as he finally understood. Not _Mary_. Not _her_ mother. It was _Promise me that you'll marry again, the children need a mother. Oh, my darling, oh, my love!_

He pushed up from the bed, moving blindly out the door, almost stumbling down the nursery stairs, and hurried down the corridor. How long had he been gone? The door to their bedroom opened, and his mother came out, stopped, and raised an arm.

"Oh, God, no!" he cried, rushing to her.

But Isobel was smiling. "My dear! She's better!" And she ushered him into the room.

Clarkson looked up from his bag. He was smiling. Sybil and Allyn were covering Mary with a clean sheet. When they looked up, they were smiling.

Matthew looked at Clarkson. "She's truly better?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"She is. The epinephrine did its work—her blood pressure's up, and her heart is stronger, her breathing easier. Her temperature is back down to 102. She's fighting it." He closed his bag with a snap. "She's not out of the woods yet," he cautioned, "but this is a very good sign, Mr. Crawley, very good, indeed."

Matthew nodded. "Thank—." He stopped, his mouth working, then cleared his throat. "Thank you, Dr. Clarkson. Thank you."

He moved to the bed and sat down, leaning forward, and took up Mary's hand in both of his, kissing it, then holding it against his cheek. Clarkson was right, she was breathing more easily. "Darling, I was just with the children, putting them to bed. They send you all their love, and hugs, and hope you are much better soon. And they're fine, but they miss you very, very much, they need their mother, Mary, you are such a wonderful mother. They need you. _We_ need you," His voice broke as he added, "Please, my darling, please keep fighting. Promise me, you'll keep fighting"

She didn't open her eyes, but her mouth moved slightly, and her fingers gave his the barest squeeze.

.

Matthew knocked, then opened their bedroom door a crack and peeked in. "Are you ready for company?"

"I most certainly am!" Mary laughed, as Allyn finished tying the ribbon to her plait.

Mary really had turned the corner. The children had been begging to see her, but she was still quite weak, sleeping mostly, for two days after that long, anxious night. But this morning, the third after she had begun to recover, she was considerably better, and she felt well enough to have a real bath and her hair washed and brushed dry—_They can't see me looking and smelling like this, for pity's sake!_ Sitting propped up in bed on clean sheets, wearing a clean nightgown and bed jacket, Mary held out her arms, as Matthew opened the door wide. "Where are my chickies?"

"Mummy!" her "brood" cried, running to her, each holding (or crushing, in Robbie's case) a small bouquet of freshly-picked winter hellabores. They clambered up onto the bed, showering her with hugs and kisses, as a grinning Matthew seated himself in the chair still at the bedside.

"We missed you, Mummy. Are you better now?" George asked, needing to hear the words from his mother herself.

"_So_ much better, Georgie," Mary assured him, ruffling his hair.

"Good," he smiled, visibly relaxing.

"And I'm even better now that you're all here—the best medicine I could have!"

Robbie snuggled up against her. "You smell good."

Mary kissed his forehead. "Now tell me what you've been up to?"

A rather chaotic recitation followed as each child reviewed the past few days. Finally, Robbie announced, "And we read the story about the bad sister, and snakes and toads came out of her mouth!" And he fell over on the bed laughing.

"What?" exclaimed Mary. "You read _Toads and Diamonds_? Horrible!" Mary pronounced, closing her eyes and shuddering.

"Yes, it was horrible, just horrible," Catherine agreed, imitating her mother.

"No, it's not!" Robbie cackled.

"Cathy picked it," George put in.

"Now you know why we've never read it," Mary stated, raising her brows.

Catherine knelt on the bed and took her mother's face in her hands. "Mummy, you must never, ever, ever, get sick like this again! Not ever!"

"I'll _try_ very, very hard not to be sick like this again," Mary said, smiling, tapping Cathy's nose.

"Do you promise, Mummy? Do you promise?"

Mary looked over her daughter's head at Matthew, whose eyes, like hers, were glistening. "Yes," she said softly. "I promise."

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_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!_


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